


Nocimynorca (The Acryonymicon Reversed)

by Lisbetadair



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Choking, Face Slapping, M/M, Oral Sex, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-08-29 18:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16749085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisbetadair/pseuds/Lisbetadair
Summary: The enforced celibacy of a dull tour of Afghanistan is driving Ghost to madness. It’s not easy keeping a lid on violent desires, but it turns out that there’s a certain Ranger who’s kinked in just the perfect way... (A re-telling of Acronymicon from the other point of view)Explicitly erotic with BDSM themes and activities, between consenting adults and with all parties concerned having a great time.





	1. Chapter 1

The Acryonymicon tells the story of Ramirez and Ghost’s brief exploration of their sadomasochistic identities from the vantage of Ramirez’s masochistic submission. This story is told from the _opposite_ point of view: Ghost’s position of the dominant sadist.

 

**Chapter One**

 

Squatting by the the rear gunner, I watched the Afghan countryside race past beneath us. The thundering rotors shredding the air above weren't quite the blissful silence I craved, but as long as they drowned out the relentless bickering, I didn't mind. Flying low through the valley, lush green plantations hugging the riverside beneath us, far away from the dust, the ubiquitous opium and unending horrors of civil war, Helmand almost looked pleasant. Perhaps, if I’d been in a better mood, I might have enjoyed it, but our transport finally pitched up at two in the afternoon after we'd kicked our heels in the dust for a delay of four painful hours, sweating under the midday sun and fighting off the storm of buzzing flies. Now, I was just pissed off.

 

The gunner made a gesture, and I nodded acknowledgement: fifteen minutes until the wheels touched down in the arse end of American involvement in Afghanistan, and our last taste of civilisation before we rolled out the gates on our final mission, to woo the last stronghold of Russian loyalists to join our cause. After four months traipsing round Helmand chasing the shadow of the Spetsnaz with very little to show for it, I really hoped the Loyalists had the intel we badly needed, because if they were pulling our legs, I'd make sure they paid for it in blood. Spending several years licking their wounds in the badlands had made them shy, so we were visiting in person to show willing, dragging two crates of goodies that went bang as tribute. The idea of crossing the long miles of shitty, vulnerable desert road for nothing would be the final surge of pressure that my swelling rage needed to erupt.

 

I fucking hated Afghanistan.

 

Six long months on tour, traipsing from shitty provincial outpost to shittier, more provincial outpost with fuck all to show for it, I had reached the end of my tether. I needed to fight something, or fuck someone, or both, preferable at the same time. In the meantime, as the big machine banked, the horizon titling away nauseatingly, I just closed my eyes and concentrated on trying to breath, trying to keep myself calm.

 

It took a lot of mental energy to keep a lid on it these days but I persevered, fighting that thirst for violence as long as I could. At home, there were a few like me, a brotherhood of pyschos who got together to informally kick shit out of each other on a semi-regular basis in the gym. I loved it, milling with the boys, just letting go of the chains and brawling until we were exhausted, slick with sweat and blood. It felt _great_. Failing that, at least there was Grindr for the other.

 

Of course, thanks to this shit job, I had the same swelling, ravenous rage, but no outlet. I punched bags until my knuckles bled, ran until my vision greyed out and wanked until it hurt, but the diminishing returns were bleeding obvious. The anger throbbed beneath the surface of my mind like an abscess, leaking poison into my thoughts, rendering me permanently irritable, even on the best of days. We needed to see some action before I did something _really_ bad, and only three months away from my last stint in the Glasshouse expiring, I really didn't need that hassle.

 

Fifteen minutes later, almost to the second, I felt the chopper flare and then touch down. Meat already had the engine in gear as we swooped in so when the light turned green, he put pedal to metal and we launched out into the baking morning heat with enough acceleration that I slammed back and bounced off the headrest. I blinked, my eyes filled with flashing afterglows from the sudden, blinding sunlight, and the short charge from the landing pad to the hanger passed in a swift, neon-stained blur before I even had time to call him a stupid cunt.

 

He braked hard,  and we jerked to a halt in what felt like complete darkness until my eyes readjusted back to the new gloom: we'd arrived in the hanger. Behind me, I heard the doors slide shut with a tortured shriek, and the blinding light vanished.

 

“Welcome to the ass end of fucking nowhere.” said Meat, his voice loud and unreasonably cheerful given the circumstances. He grinned at me, and it took all the effort I could muster not to punch his irritating pink face and its stupid, inane expression. I gritted my teeth and swung out of the jeep, heading back out the way we came in, refusing to acknowledge anyone else.

 

Fire Base Phoenix, situated some miles south of Khandahar, the last stronghold before a vast emptiness all the way to Pakistan, and a fucking dump from one side of high security fencing to the other. According to the troops freshly rotated out, the base was either tediously dull, or nerve shatteringly stressful, depending on the ammo stocks of the local Taliban. Looking at the listless, sweating Rangers lying around like basking lizards, I guessed we were in a trough of the latter.

 

In the meantime, I stomped off after Mac, already deflecting the Yanks’ attempt at cordial greetings away from me in case I fucked it up with my shitty mood. This was decent of him, but it just made me angrier at myself. I _really_ wanted to punch something. Behind me, Roach attempted to whistle a popular comedy number that suggested, against all the odds, to look on the bright side of life. I turned to glare at him and wisely, he legged it.

  
  


Inside, I picked a room for myself just off the landing, at the end of a short corridor shared with one other and an office marked as the base for the accomodation liaison. I locked the door of the room between us, denying it to any potential neighbours and thus creating a two room buffer zone between me, the shit music, stinking feet and body odour of everyone else.

 

I slung my gear on to the bed and took stock: an anonymous, bare little space, with a remarkably firm bed and a little table. All clean, if bit musty from disuse. Best of all, I didn't have to share it. The bed had been made up with clean sheets, and there were some cans of Coke on the floor by the bed with a packet of tortilla crisps propped up beside them. When the Yanks went to war, they went with all the bells and whistles tacked on, something I was glad to be able to exploit, for a change.

 

I picked up a can, and opened it, glad to finally quench the thirst and take the edge from the slowly building dehydration headache, when I heard Mac outside, hitting up some unsuspecting Yank with the full, impenetrable Tactical Jock. Thinking this might be a bit of light relief, I stuck my head out and there, on the landing, as if it was just no big deal, was the most perfect arse I'd ever seen.

 

The US Army redesigned their uniforms about a year ago, and it had the same effect as chronically dosing bromide in my tea, but not even badly designed digital camouflage could disguise this particularly stellar example of male physique. It helped that he wasn’t wearing the particularly ridiculous tunic, and instead, had tucked his t-shirt into his trousers, allowing unimpeded viewing of the round, thick muscle of his backside.

 

“This is the willing slave looking after us!” said MacTavish, spotting me hovering in the doorway and nodding his head towards the man beside him.

 

I dragged my gaze upwards as he turned and found that the perfect arse attached to a perfect boy. He was fucking _gorgeous_.

 

Just a bit shorter than Mac, he had the fresh face of a young man not long out of training, just deployed a few months ago, by his still water-fat face. He looked back at me, all treacle-eyed innocence, and as I returned his stare, his long, dark lashes flared and his eyes widened, an unexpected flash of surprise on his perfect face. His thick, luscious lips tightened, his brow furrowing as the fear he tried to conceal bled through into his face for just a fraction of a second, before he shifted his expression into a more appropriate neutral.

 

The rage inside me seemed to fall away as I stared, the outside world receding.  A vague, rushing noise filled my ears, as I thought about stripping away those shitty clothes to expose the naked, bronze skin beneath, running my lips along that firm jaw, smooth and close shaven. I smiled, swinging the now empty can of Coke from my fingers absentmindedly. Beneath my shirt, my nipples tingled as they peaked with my early flutters of arousal. I tried not to think of anything too filthy before my cock started going the same way, but I couldn't help it. If I couldn't fight something, I could fuck something, and my God I wanted to tear the clothes from this sweet boy and have him writhing underneath me right this very second.

 

A door slammed, and the noise jerked me from my reverie. “So, you're here to satisfy all our desires?” I said, and then mentally winced, realising how fucking stupid that sounded.

 

He swallowed, and said “Yes, sir”, dropping his smouldering gaze away as if he was shy, but I thought they lingered at my fly for a beat longer than appropriate. I rolled the empty can around in my hand, thinking about what his face would look like if I had his balls in my palm, slowly just moving them around. I thought about his doe-eyes widening as I squeezed just enough that it hurt and my body responded with an accelerating rush of blood between my legs. He looked terrified,  _exactly_ the way I like it.

 

“I'll see you later then.” I said, crushing the can in my fist, and retreated into my room, letting the door swing shut behind me before I slumped against it.

 

I didn't care about getting caught, or what anyone else thought, but by God, I needed  to fuck that boy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

 

The next two hours passed with grinding, painful slowness that I felt as an ache between my legs: my balls even more swollen than usual after the enforced wank-free interval of sleeping like cats in whatever unoccupied flat space was left in our corner of Bastion.

 

My fierce anger hadn't gone away, just mutated into a gnawing, sexual hunger. I hadn't shagged in _months,_  something that irked me at the best of times, but thrown into sharp relief by his appearance. I practically burned with desire, unable to get the image of his perfectly firm arse out of my head, and what it would feel like squeezed in my hand. If I did force it out of mind, even briefly, it was replaced by his doe-like, anxious expression, and then the slow inevitable descent into fantasy, where I corrupted that perfect innocence with pleasure and pain.

 

In a futile attempt to divert this sudden burst of sexual energy, I went back to the hanger and started to unload the jeeps with furious speed, even though I was desperate to be back in the accommodation, hunting down this boy and working him out. Based on his little surreptitious glance between my legs: I thought him as queer as I was. I acknowledged that frustrated and desperate as I felt, this could be wishful thinking, but I thought I recognised that flicker of fear on his face from the faces of the men I'd had before. They wanted it, but they had some weird hang up about it, wanted you to take the lead, do things to them, and in my ideal circumstances punish them for their depravity.

 

I thought of him tense underneath me, refusing to look at me, trying to hold back against what my hands were doing, and me, _making_ him look, making him _beg_ and then teasing him…. I stopped, feeling another rush of blood between my legs. If I wasn't careful, I was going to find myself the subject of some serious funny looks, but in this respect, my prior foul mood did me good, because everyone else gave me a wide berth.

 

I dropped the last of the cases in the briefing room, and hit the showers, trying to construct a convincing lie, a problem with my room or something similar that would give me a reason to knock on his door and press him into responding to my advances. Of course, if he told me to fuck off, I was back to square one, trying to wank myself into oblivion, and dreaming of causing him pain. I gritted my teeth, turning the water up until it felt like hot needles driving into the skin of my back. It hurt, but I needed a distraction from my burning desire, straining at the end of its chain.

 

Plans formed and dissolved in my mind as I washed off the dusty grime, shaved off my nascent, prickly beard, engaged in some quick pubic topiary and tried to form my unruly hair into something resembling an actual style instead of a hopeless, shaggy mess. After a good once-over in the mirror, I pronounced myself eminently shaggable, and went hunting.

 

Presumably because God likes a good laugh at the sexually frustrated, or maybe just me personally, he wasn't in his fucking office by the time I thought of an excuse to visit, or the rec room, or the kitchen, so I had to retreat to lie on my own bed, staring at the ceiling and willing him to fucking fall through it onto my cock as it stiffened under my hand. This was not successful, but after a good wank, I at least felt a bit less like my balls were about to explode, and this took a bit of the edge from my agitation.

 

Of course, I found him in the fucking briefing room, the one place I'd not thought to search, setting out some donuts. I watched him from the door, putting the last one artfully on a plate, licking the cloudy glaze coating his fingers away with a deft flick of his tongue. I had never seen something so  _o_ _bscenely_ sexual in my life.

 

He wiped his hand on a stray napkin, and looked up at me, as if recognising me for the first time. He had missed a spot on the edge of his mouth, and it glistened in the light, sending my mind off on a delightful tangential fantasy. I couldn't stop staring, until I realised that he was staring back at me with a really awkward expression. Either he was staring at me because he was thinking about fucking me, or because he was freaking out that I was staring at him like I wanted to fuck him, or both. I liked both. Both was good.

 

“Coffee, sir?” He stammered. He was definitely nervous, and I wondered if there were rumours preceding us, painting us as some kind of murderous automatons. The Americans liked that sort of crap, and it often worked in our favour, but if it put the frighteners on him too much to get into bed with me, I’d find the person who started spreading it and personally break their face.

 

I smiled, thinking about the rest of the wankers I was supposed to be in charge of, who could probably murder a cup of tea, but only after an argument about the semantics of whether you put the fucking milk in first or not.

 

“Tea actually.” I replied. “No milk, three sugars”. I had tasted US Army powdered milk once, and I'd rather hug a suicide bomber than repeat the experience.

 

I slumped down in a chair at the end of the big table, and swung back a little using my knee as a lever, whilst he busied himself making the tea. I delighted in the fact that he had to bend down, the fabric of his fatigues briefly going taunt around his perfect arse, and then I steeled my myself as he turned round.

 

“Ain't you going to say I'm sweet enough?” I said, hopefully, raising my eyebrows in what I hoped was a deeply insinuating, but subtly flirtatious fashion.

 

He froze with his hand halfway to placing the mug on the table.

 

 _Aw, shit_! I thought, resigning my fantasies to the dustbin. “With all the sugar?” I tried, helpfully, into the awkward silence. He clearly didn't have a fucking clue what I was on about.

 

He placed the mug very carefully and silently on a coaster. I could hear my heart thundering in my chest as the moment stretched out and he straightened, eyes downcast. When he finally looked up, I saw that microexpression of fear again before he spoke.

 

““I certainly hope not, sir.” he said.

 

My brain stalled.

 

 _No way!_ I thought. _No fucking way_.

 

I had been right all along.

 

I grinned, and I knew I looked smug, but I couldn't help it. He was down to fuck alright, and we both knew it.

 

I hunted for my next line, debating whether or not just to press forward and lock lips with him right there and then, but just I thought of what to say, I heard the lock cycle and he jerked away, busying himself with the coffee machine as the room filled with bodies and noise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 

If I was some kind of stark-raving masochist, then spending two hours suppressing my semi whilst the boss droned on about intelligence reporting and the rest of the troop bickered, might have been like Christmas come early.  Instead, the slow progress of operational planning, with the tedious back-and-forth over minutiae, listening to the pedants and their truculent dogmatism changed from being mind-numbingly dull to excruciating torture, souring my cheerful excitement back into barely concealed, fury.

 

Finally, a full fifteen minutes after we were suppose to finish up for the night, Mac finally yawned, stretched and called it quits for the evening, thank _fuck_. Everyone else had been rubbing their eyes for at least half an hour, the early start, long delay in the sun and hard work of unloading catching up with them in the end. All except me, buzzing out of my skull on coffee, rage and sexual overdrive.

 

I let them all file out, claiming that I wanted to do some non-specific checks before I turned in and no one batted an eyelid. Then I settled down to wait.

 

I figured half an hour to let them settle down, and then I'd casually saunter nonchalantly to his door, and knock. I blessed my foresight of blocking off the rest of the corridor, reducing the possibility of prying little squadmates spoiling my fun. I made myself a cup of tea to calm my jangling nerves and pulled off my shirt. I wanted him to get a good eyeful of what he could be having, just in case he had second thoughts.

 

About fifteen minutes later, I heard the door cycle and cursed internally, but then, as the figure paused in the doorway, I saw the reflection in the dark, sleeping screen of the video monitor and my stomach looped with delight.

 

He stared at my back for probably ten seconds before entering the room, but it felt like an hour. Eventually, he crossed the threshold and the door cycled shut behind him. I heard beeping, and then he tentatively cleared his throat, and spoke.

 

“Can I get you anything, sir?” he asked, into the silence.

 

“I’m all right, thanks.” I replied, draining my mug and putting it with the rest by the coffee machine. I was more than all right, I was fucking ecstatic.

 

I paused, took a deep breath, and I turned round slowly, my heart pounding in my chest, each pulse of blood thumping in my head, flooding my ears with turbulent, rushing noise. He had started to busy himself in clearing up the detritus of the meeting and I might have mistaken this for disinterest, except that I could see the display by the door lock, counting down from an hour.

 

Mac had explained that it was a security feature, that when we were planning we had to lock the room to prevent accidental walk-ins. Only the people who knew the override codes, in this case, Colonel Ford alone, could get in, so everyone else had to be inside already. I thought it was typical Yank overkill, evidence of more money than sense. Any normal person would just put a sign up that said “Fuck off!” on the door. Only now, locked in an impenetrable, soundproof room with the boy I wanted to tear the clothes off, could I see that it was actually, an immensely valuable resource worth every dollar it had cost. I smiled. No one sealed a room just to pick up the dishes. Clearly, we appeared to have a need for privacy, and my brain was already in overdrive fantasising why.

 

He continued to ignore me, and I figured that either he got pleasure from teasing me, making me wait, or was too nervous to make the first move. Either way, I was going to make him pay for that later, and enjoy myself immensely. I watched him bending down to pick over the VC equipment to show me his tight arse, fabric of his fatigues stretched tight over the skin. I thought about the noise it would make if I just swung the flat of my hand, and slapped it. My cock twitched, as I imagined how good it would sound.

 

“Rough out here in the sticks, innit?” I said, by way of conversation.

 

He straightened up, putting the bunch of wires clasped in his hand on top of the stack and paused before speaking.

 

“I like it rough, sir.”

 

My stomach clenched like I’d been punched, and the shockwave spread through my body, crackling over my skin like electrical discharge and grounding between my legs, sparking my cock’s flagging arousal into a full, surging erection. I didn’t just like it rough, I fucking _lived_ for it.

 

I stepped closer, so that when he turned round I was undeniably in his personal space.

 

“Oh, _really_?” I said, trying to keep the excited, anxious tremor out of my voice.

 

He stood his ground and stared at me, drowned me with those pretty eyes, dark pools of treacle sweetness. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I made my move, reaching up as I leaned in, deftly pushing his face towards my own with the lightest of pressure, feeling the roughness of his faint brush of stubble under my fingers and then his luscious, sweet lips were on mine.

 

I didn't overdo it, even though I really wanted just to force him back against the wall and tear his clothes away with my bare hands. He didn't pull away, just responded with a tentative, gentle suck of my lip, whilst his body quivered. I knew then that whatever he wanted, I was really going to enjoy every second that I got to do it.

 

I paused for a second, my forehead pressing against his. I felt his hot, sweet breath on my face and asked “How rough would you say you liked it?”

 

He told me.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

 

Inside my head fireworks exploded and a full, organ-backed choir opened a celebratory refrain of Hallelujahs as he told me what he wanted on no uncertain terms, frankly listing the finer details of how he was kinked. If you tried to plot some sort of diagram of our perversion, the circles didn't just intersect, they were the same fucking circle: he was a filthy little slag that deserved to be punished, and I was the twisted sadistic bastard who delighted in providing exactly that.

 

All the rage, all the furious pent up energy within, swelled to fill my mind completely, obscuring all else. My ears sang with the rushing throb of each pounding heartbeat. I wanted this boy so badly, I wanted to do things to him that would make him scream, and I was going to do them _right now._

 

“Strip.” I ordered.

 

My voice came out in a hard snarl, filled with commanding force and derision at the same time, the voice of the evil within, finally allowed release. I felt the rush like am electric charge, crackling down my spine and sizzling over my skin, the hairs on my arms rising in its wake. This was really happening, _right now_. My heart seemed to pause, skip a beat and then jerk into a racing gallop. I felt the surge, felt myself shift state as that other part of me, the part that revelled in blood and pain took hold.

 

He had done exactly as I had demanded, and stood before me, naked and trembling, but still _magnificent_. I drank in the thickset shoulders, the dark brush of hair covering his broad chest and flat belly until it joined the tight curls of pubes framing his ample erection, and swollen balls beneath.  He still had that coating of fat only the newly deployed had, before the water deprivation sucked them dry. I liked that, the layer of pliable flesh beneath my fingers before the solid base of brute muscle beneath. I loved the way it felt beneath my teeth, the way it rippled when the energy of a slap transferred.

 

He was strong, fit, utterly fuckable, and mine for the taking. I really, _really_ wanted to unleash all my pent up sexual fury on this body, but the stars align for people like me so rarely that I don’t squander the opportunities that present themselves to me. I was going to take things _slow_.

 

“Put your hands on your head, and don't fucking move until I tell you.” I demanded, struggling to keep my voice level, because the lust I felt bled through, turning what should have been a dominating bark into a low growl.

 

He started, and I could taste the fear in the air between us, the terror he felt in his surrender as he leapt into position at my command. I felt the slick touch of pleasure inside at his submission and my body responded with another surge of blood into the increasing tightness between my legs.

 

He shivered in the cool room, his skin prickling into gooseflesh beneath the dark hair, nipples peaking suddenly as the cold draught caressed them. I saw the adrenaline spike of terror flowing into his blood, his beautiful maple skin paling as the vessels constricted, watched the squirming muscles in his scrotum visibly contract. His jaw clenched as he bit it back, riding out the rush.

 

I bent down into a crouch, leaning close to his stiffened cock. He might be scared, but he couldn’t disguise how much he loved it. I knew that this close, he could feel the caress of my warm breath on his bare skin. I stroked my finger gently along the length of it, feeling the warm, velvet softness contrasting with the concrete of the engorged flesh beneath. He didn’t move more than a faint twitch, and his obedience, utter devotion to my command, sent another wave of tingling pleasure along my skin. I wondered how far I could push him.

 

I made him wait.

 

I rolled the tip of his cock slowly between my thumb and forefinger, pressing firmly enough to watch the skin stretch and squash beneath my touch, knowing from my own experience how utterly fucking delicious this felt, but also that it didn’t _do_ anything, just push that millimeter closer to coming when you really want to sprint. Just enough to be _nice_.

 

I teased him for my own enjoyment, listening for that tiny catch in his breath when he thought I was going to follow through. I cycled through the motions, gripping his cock and starting to tug for just a moment before falling back to my delicate, gentle massage until his body started to shake with the tension, the urge to squirm. He clenched so hard that I could have punched him in the gut and I don’t think he would have felt it.

 

When he finally started to make a low, keening noise, like a dog in distress, I stroked my hand down to the base of his cock and cupped his balls in my hand, pulling the thick, curling pubes just enough to make him wince.

 

“You do like it rough, you little slag.” I said, and gripped, hard.

 

He shuddered as I squeezed, and cried out, a plaintive whimper that caressed my twisted soul. I was _really_ going to enjoy hearing him squeal.

 

“Get on your knees.” I snarled. I had worshipped his body enough for the moment, it was time for him to put some work in.

 

He dropped instantly, wincing as he hit the cold linoleum, struggling to keep his hands in position whilst he wobbled. He looked pathetic, and I found it deeply arousing. He had surrendered himself utterly to my whims, and I fucking _loved_ it.

 

I fumbled with my trousers, and pulled my cock free, grasping it at the base in my hand, the tip just inches from his lips.

 

“Suck it, slag.” I growled.

 

He obeyed instantly, his thick, luscious lips devouring me with abandon. I had to bite back a groan of ecstasy as his tongue enveloped me with its firm, wet caress, sliding over and around me with expert precision. He sucked with just enough intensity to feel sublime, and it was so seductive that for a moment, I almost forgot myself. I hadn’t had anything this good for months, and it was so tempting just to sit back and let things happen, but that would be such a waste.

 

I jerked back, pulling my cock free of his lips in one swift movement that left him sucking air and then I slapped him, hard. The sharp retort of skin smacking against skin echoed in my ears, and buzzed across my skin, leaving my nipples peaked and tingling. I loved that sound. My hand struck the bone of his check with enough force to leave it smarting, and sending him onto the floor in a heap.

 

I leaned over him, regretting not leaving him wearing something to grab as I spat “Get back on your fucking knees, you worthless slut, and do it properly.” in his face. He looked up me, his doe-like eyes filled with tears and pain. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. Lust rose inside me like burning fire, coursing through my veins and filling my entire body with a feverish heat. I wanted to hurt him until he begged me stop.

 

He shoved back into position, and pulled my cock back into his mouth. I could barely contain myself as I pressed his face into me, kneaded the short, fuzzy hair of his head beneath my fingers. If I thought he had been good at it before, I had been sorely mistaken, because his efforts transcended even that. His tongue was strong, and hot and wild as it explored every millimetre of me.

 

“Harder” I demanded, barely even able to form the words. I clawed my fingers across his neck and grabbed his ears hard enough that he whimpered, but didn’t break pace, redoubling his efforts into a final surge. I groaned as I felt it building, felt the slow, twitching spasms of ecstasy begin as my balls tightened and pulled myself free, coming in his face at the last second, just like he’d asked.  

 

When I opened my eyes and snapped back into reality, I found him still on the floor, staring up at me with hopeless adoration. His face  glistened, streaked with a mixture of tears and come, and beneath that, already his cheek was blossoming into a red welt where I’d struck him.

 

“Get up.” I said, still breathing hard. He had worshipped me, seduced me with his luscious lips, and now, I was going to make him pay.

 

He struggled to his feet, and I shoved him as he stumbled, grabbing him by the neck and pressing down just firmly enough on his throat that he could feel it, reminding him that I was in control. I heard him draw a ragged gasp of shock.

 

“Fucking slag!” I growled.

 

I grabbed his cock with my other hand, gripping it hard enough that he moaned, shuddering and twisting as fight and flight reflexes fought inside. Beneath my hand, he was rock hard, loving every moment that I made him suffer.

 

“Beg for it.” I demanded.

 

“Please” he whispered, his face contorting. “ _Please_.”

 

I grinned, loving his torment. I started to jerk my clenched hand back and forth, tantalisingly slowly.

 

“ _Please_.” he pleaded, his voice a whisper, but I continued: bending my head to his chest and running my tongue over his nipple, caressing it, circling it and then scraping over the delicate skin with my teeth. When I looked back at his face, tears of frustration had welled l in his eyes, and he pleaded, _implored_  in choking sobs that I release him. It was such a beautiful thing to behold that I felt my cock twitch again, but I sensed he’d reached the limit. I switched up a gear, working harder and faster, again and again. He writhed beneath me, squirming between the wall at his back and my grip on his throat. He sobbed as he came, body jerking with ecstasy as I finally gave him his release.

 

I let go and he collapsed, slumping down against the wall and then landing on the floor with a loud slap, his chest heaving, body twitching with the ghosts of climax.

 

I bent to help him, wiping his face clean. The point where I’d struck him looked nasty and I knew I’d overdone it, but we’d deal with that later. He looked back at me with a dazed, beatific expression. I smiled back and pressed a bottle of water into his hand, letting him slake his thirst before I slid onto the floor beside him, and passed a blanket over his shoulders. He was already shivering.

 

I wrapped him up in it, before I kissed him again, and this time, he kissed me back lazily, but confidently this time.

 

“Thanks.” he said, as he rested against me, eyes closed, his forehead pressed to mine.

 

I squeezed him, gently, across the shoulders. “Thank _you_.” I replied.

 

“I don’t even know your name.” he said, pulling back a fraction and opening his eyes. He reached up and I let him caress my face with his rough, thick fingers.

 

I smiled, and let out a tiny snort of laughter before I said “I’m just a ghost, mate.”

  



	5. Chapter 5

**Part 2: UFANS**

 

We lay in glorious post-coital haze for a good ten minutes, basking in our sexual overindulgence.

He really did have a fantastic body, and whilst we cuddled up on the floor beneath the blanket I made sure that whilst I got the undisturbed chance, I explored as much of it as I could. Clearly, he was shagged out, because he just lay there whilst I rubbed my hands all over, feeling the soft fat squirming over the firm muscle beneath, and kissing the bits that I liked best. I got the feeling that the effort of coming on to me, of building up the confidence to tell me how he felt and what he wanted to do had taxed him too much to consider coming back to mine for a second round. 

He watched impassively at my investigative foray across his body, but as the lock out reading crept closer and closer to zero, he developed that twitchy look that I’ve seen some men get when it’s over, the little whispers of regret and doubt starting to creep in. So I said my last thanks, gave him one last, lingering kiss, made my excuses and left without much further ado. 

I slept more soundly than I had in months. 

Part of it might be finally getting to sleep in an actual bed, secure in a room of my own and not having to keep one eye on my squadmates with their alarmingly communist attitude to personal possessions, but really, it was the utter delicious exhaustion of having a  _ really  _ good fuck. I was out the moment I hit the pillow, and spent the rest of the night in a luxurious dreamless slumber until my alarm went off. 

**  
** When the hot water of the shower hit my skin I got a sudden flash of memory from the previous night as his scent rose off me in the steam and I smiled. I was careful not to overthink it too much incase my cock woke up too, but I couldn’t keep the joy in my soul confined, and the smug feeling showed on my face. This reversal in affect piqued some interest, but I just put it down to getting a decent night’s kip, which seemed to satisfied the nosy bastards. 

Ramirez -it turned out that the slag had a name- wasn’t in the briefing room, now doubling as a breakfasting area filled with the mouthwatering aroma of fried meat and sugar. I wondered if he had lugged it all the way over from the catering corps by himself before we woke up, and if so, whether he had done so trying to avoid setting off the spasms of pain from his muscle’s exertions the previous evening. I knew that most of them liked that, the little surprise reminders stealing up on them unexpectedly the next day, and I liked it too. It’s nice to know that someone’s thinking about you.

Behind, I heard the door open as I brewed up, and a voice exclaimed. “What happened to your face, bro?”

_ Oh shit.  _

I think I’m pretty good about playing it cool, but I still froze when I heard Toad speak, and as the focus of attention in the room shifted behind me, I turned round very, very slowly. 

Ramirez didn’t look at me, but I could still see that his left cheek now sported a livid bruise where the knuckles of my open hand had landed over the bone. Lucky for us, it had formed an amorphous blob, rather than obvious lines where my fingers had connected. This would be easier to explain away, which he did with enough casual aplomb that I was secretly impressed. 

“I was bouncing a basketball inside, hit a ceiling tile and it landed on my face, sir.” said Ramirez, with a sigh of irritated embarrassment, as if he’d been over this story a thousand times already that morning. It was some top class acting, and the titter of laughs it elicited swept away the nebulous worry brewing in my gut. 

“What a fucking plum!” I said, with a snort, and shoved passed him, hoping this would distance me from the issue.

“Oh, now that's bold, coming from a man I once saw mortar his own firing position by mistake.” said Toad, with a smirk. 

“Fuck  _ off _ !” I said, slapping my hand down on the table with genuine irritation. 

On balance, it was only fair: I’d fucked up by marking the boy in the heat of passion and I should just take the punishment karma had allotted to me. At least it drew attention away from his flimsy excuse for why he had a bruised face. It didn’t make Toad any less of a sanctimonious do-gooding bastard, sticking his oar in where it wasn’t wanted. 

“Why did you have to bring that up?” I snapped, genuinely annoyed. He was ruining my credibility as a smooth operator.

“Because you were being an areshole,  _ again _ .” He countered.  

“Shut it, the both of you!” MacTavish's head snapped up from his newspaper, and he glared at us. “Christ! You're like a pack of kids!” He shook his head, and then he seemed to notice Ramirez for the first time. “Don't mind the moaning bastard.” He said, jerking his head in my direction “You're doing a fine job of feathering our gilded cage.”

I cursed internally. Now everyone was silent, and looking at Ramirez. I know they couldn’t tell that _ I _ had bruised his face mid-blowjob, but it didn’t half make me feel awkward as they stared at him. Still, the look of barely concealed terror on his face was oddly arousing.

Behind me, MacTavish continued, despite me mentally willing him to get back to failing his crossword. “Private breakfast.” He nodded his head towards the warmers. “Infinite amounts of decent coffee. Linen service…” He trailed off whilst he stared at Ramirez. “Any other treats planned?”

I couldn’t resist it. “Yeah. Any chance of a blowjob?” I said, sarcastically, and was rewarded by a flash of wide-eyed fear.

“Too far Ghost. You’re scaring the kid.” said Roach, rolling his eyes. 

“Put a wig on him, better looking than your last shag.” I observed. It gave me a little edgy thrill to mention that Ramirez was good looking, to sail close to the wind with my comments because each time I spoke his expression told me that inside, he was screaming.

Roach knew me better than to rise to this. “Accurate.” he said, with an indifferent shrug and went back to reading his magazine, as if he didn’t care, which served only to piss me off. I glared at him.

“ _As_ _I was saying…_ ” said MacTavish, carefully enunciating every word in a way that told us that whatever our rank, or however important we considered ourselves, he was going to kick shit out of the next bastard that interrupted him, so I called it quits. “You’re doing a very good job of keeping us comfortable.”

“Thank you, sir. Captain Ford said that this was to be the case.” 

“Oh really.” MacTavish continued “Anyone would think he didn’t want us going outside.” 

I felt a bit sorry for Ramirez, excited though I was by his anxiety, He was low-ranking dogsbody, being interrogated by MacTavish about politics that he didn’t have any say in. I hoped he was smart enough not to drop himself in any shit. I had just come to terms with the possibility of this being a medium term shag-fest whilst we waited to roll out and I’d be really pissed off he got himself replaced by some clueless wanker.

“What do  _ you  _ think?” MacTavish asked. I held my breath.

“Um… do you wish me to speak frankly, sir?” said Ramirez. I kept a surreptitious eye on him as he spoke, because even though I was worried, MacTavish’s probing questions produced an expression of slightly cringing fear that I was finding really enjoying. I had never considered the possibility of social embarrassment as a form of erotic torture, and felt that whole new avenues might be opening up for me.

“You’ve earned your right to… um… independence in your work, sir. We…“We… have yet to learn that wisdom that… um... allows you to safely deviate from standard procedure. Um… I don’t think all the men would understand that yet, sir.. They might uh… .” He faltered, looking flushed. I felt my cock twitch.

MacTavish nodded. “Alright, don't hurt yourself.” 

_ Spoilsport _ , I thought, watching Ramirez breath a sigh of relief. 

“What are you doing today, then?” MacTavish asked, innocently. 

“CQB drills in an hour, sir.” Ramirez replied

“Oh well. I’m sure we could pop by and cheer you on, as a thank you.”

I watched, with great joy, as he absolutely bricked it. 

****  
  
  


An hour later, I found him in the little kitchenette, working his way through the washing up. He stood with his back to me, but something must have tipped him off to my presence, because he paused in his drying, but didn't turn round. I sensed that this was probably his way of giving me the cold shoulder after my antics at breakfast. I mentally slapped myself at choosing the short term gain over the longer investment. If I pissed him off too much, he wouldn't come play later, a state of affairs that I considered suboptimal to say the least.

I closed the door softly behind me, not wanting to draw attention to my entrance from any of the others, and locked it. He put down his teatowel and placed his hands on the counter, but didn't turn round. I saw the tension in his shoulders, and braced myself for the possibility of him taking a swing at me, not that I didn’t deserve it. 

I stepped closer, until I stood at touching distance, right behind him. He still hadn't turned round.

“Hi.” I said, softly.

He remained still for what felt like a subjective lifetime, and then slowly turned round. He kept his gaze away from me, showing the small, but obvious purple mark on his face in a rather pointed manner.  _ A bit dramatic _ , I thought. I had been trying to rationalize things, because he hadn't explicitly said I  _ couldn't _ leave him any souvenirs, and he had been pretty keen on me slapping him when he'd dictated his terms, but I couldn't make the logic hoop-jumping stick: I should've known better. 

I reached up gently, and he let me tilt his face in the light so i could assess the damage, and it was so  _ beautiful _ . Something about men battered and bruised excited me, and I liked to pretend, regardless of how they’d got that way in the first place, that they were sporting cuts and scrapes that I’d given them between the sheets. I felt a rush between my legs as I thought about the noise of that slap connecting, and forced it away, trying to look contrite. 

“Forgive me.” I whispered, softly.

He considered this, and replied “Make it up to me.”

I smiled. I liked this boy. He might be a grovelling little slag between the sheets, but he had backbone where it counted. 

“ _ Tonight. _ ” he whispered, urgently. 

I kissed him then, I just couldn’t resist. Not too hard, just a gentle press of my lips on his, tasting the lingering sweetness of sugared coffee, grease and salt. As I pressed into him, my thigh between his leg, I felt his cock stiffen, and my own responded in kind. I wanted to tear the clothes from him there and then, and to hell with the consequences. I fumbled at the waist of his trousers. I wanted to touch him, needed to feel his soft flesh between my fingers. 

I pressed into him, pushing his head back and kissing along his jaw, working his way down to his neck, listening to his harsh breathing as he tried to hold back, but I knew he could only act like he was still annoyed for so long. 

“Well...” I whispered in his ear. “You're quite demanding, for a filthy little slag. Hm?  I think maybe, you might pay for that later.” I found the peak of his nipple and squeezed. He gasped, but the pain seemed to jog him briefly to his senses.

“No marks.” He growled, through gritted teeth. 

I considered this, twisting my fingers and making him growl as I thought. 

“I'll need to get  _ creative  _ then.” I replied, and with that, I stepped back. 

He jerked forward, almost losing his balance. 

“Tonight.” I said.

I unlocked the door, and slid out.


	6. Chapter 6

It might have looked cool when I slid out of the kitchenette and left Ramirez in a state of disarray, or, at least, I hoped he thought it did, because as I scuttled along the corridor away from anyone who might notice the bulging problem between my legs, I did not feel cool.

 _Get creative?_ I thought. _What the fuck have you done?_

I liked this boy, a lot. Yes, he was attractive, and submissive and deeply into me doing all sorts of nasty things to him, but he wasn’t going to let me push him around, and I admired that. So if I wanted to keep the status quo of delicious, illicit fucking, I needed to urgently up my game.

I considered my situation: I was in the arse-end of Afghanistan, I could hardly waltz into the public computers on the base and fire up FetLife for ideas. I could bind him and edge him for a while, but even in my dying arousal that seemed pedestrian. I needed something special, something extra that would turn our liaison from a furtive bit of slap and tickle into a showstopping scene, and I had no clue how to do it.

 

I went on like this all morning, picking up ideas and discarding them. Poking into the corners of the base for ideas and objects that I could use in some way, but it was to avail.

On my travels I found Mac the main mess, furthering his political ambition: pouring oil over the troubled water between us and our hosts. He had been reconnoitring the issue, and discovered that Ford's SF relations watering hole had been poisoned over the years by toxic runoff from many abrasive encounters with Delta and chums, setting him against us from the get-go. I was of the opinion that we should keep our heads down, like he wanted, and maybe, if the next bunch of poor bastards to get posted out here did the same, he might be in a position to accept poking with an olive branch. Mac was of the opinion that we should attempt to defuse the situation by lovebombing the CQB drill session, and he was the boss, so that's why I was now kitted up and trailing after him towards their training area, which the locals referred to as The Pit.

I spotted Ramirez milling about below, and when he looked up, I gave him a sly nod. I was a bit worried about this, for two reasons. One: Mac's cuddle party with Ford might make things worse, and Ramirez might in some way be blamed, and worse, dismissed from his position as our liaison. On both a personal and professional level this would be a disaster as he was both a good fuck and quite good at organising our quarters. Two: He might be shit at actual soldiering. In this regard, I was relieved to see, as we waited for our presence to draw the attention of the higher-ups, that Ramirez in warrior mode achieved moderate competency, so I wasn’t going to be distracted between the sheets by thinking about how terrible he was outside of them and this was a blessed relief.

When Ford turned up, ten minutes later, and looking loaded for bear, I felt a rising sense of unease, however, I needn't have worried, because MacTavish was a born people-whisperer, and under the full force of his seductive diplomatic charm, Ford's stonewalling slowly crumbled. I didn't even care that his suggestions of assisting training exercises during our brief sojourn here was technically just more work for me, so delighted was I not to see us out on our ear.

I was even more delighted when divine inspiration struck me half an hour later, as I poked around the Pit’s stores looking for some rope. I figured that if I didn’t think of anything, at least I could just tie him up and have my way with him. I’d enjoy it, and so would he, but it was hardly the mind-blowing make-up session I’d promised.

I reaching up to the top shelf, grabbed the end of a coil of rope and pulled, absentmindedly. Fortunately, I was at least looking upwards as it came over the edge and brought down a stack of boxes that had been stacked in the middle, so I narrowly avoided sporting a matching bruise on my face too.

“For fuck’s sake!” I muttered, as I stumbled into the shelves behind me. One of the boxes had burst open as it hit the ground, spilling emergency candles all over the floor, and it was as I started scrambling around to pick them up that inspiration struck.


	7. Chapter 7

MacTavish hammered on my door about five minutes after I’d squirreled the rope and candles out of sight under my bed. I guessed that Ramirez would wait until things had calmed down a bit, the rest of the lads turning in and the base generally winding down for the night before he came creeping round knocking at my door. Most of our boys were making tentative forays into the base proper for a bit of excitement; however I settled down with Mac, a  few contraband cans of lager from a pack we’d snuck in with us, talked shop and watched Arsenal hammer Aston Villa to a glorious four-nil defeat. By the time the final whistle blew, I felt nicely buzzed and walked back to my room with a spring in my step.

He knocked on the door about half an hour later, as I watched the post-match dissection, his soft knock just audible over the white noise of the crowd. I waited for a moment, glanced quickly in the mirror to check I was still shaggable, took a deep breath, and answered the door.

Doing my best to lean nonchalantly on the frame, I sized him up. His eyes widened when he saw me, his nose flaring and his jaw clenching ever so slightly. He definitely wasn't here on business. I stared at him for a long moment, and I smiled. He swallowed nervously. I kept him waiting for a beat too long, just enough to let that fear brew a little stronger, get him a little bit more excited wondering at what I had planned for him, and then, after a quick check for prying eyes, I told him to come in.

It wasn’t a big room, and he had to come close to me to get inside. I pushed the door shut behind him and pressed him back into it, pushing my palms onto the door either side of his head and leaning close. He had nowhere to go, and this close, I could hear the tremble in each rushing breath as it brushed over my skin, and the terror he had of me palpable in the air.

“You scared, slag?” I whispered.

He could barely look at me, so I leaned closer, pressing my weight through my palms into the wood.

“Yes, sir.” he replied, and the sound of those two words, the delicious terror in his voice, breathy and shaking, hit me like a bolt of lightning grounding, discharging over my skin and leaving a tingling wake that sizzled over every inch of me.

I leaned in, pressing my lips to the skin of his neck, delighting in his little flinch. I liked to start these sort of things gentle, just when I knew he expected the opposite.

“Good” I replied, and his whole body clenched when my breath hit his skin. “Cause you should be.”

My lips brushed his skin, scraping softly against the bristle of his freshly shaved skin and I whispered in his ear.  I promised pain and pleasure, threatened to take him to limits he hadn’t explored yet. He squirmed under the weight of my words, the air between us heavy, saturated with the heat of his rapid exhalations and I could taste his fear on my tongue.

“Yes sir.” he replied.

“I think you need to be taught a lesson, slag. About respecting who's in charge.”

“Yes sir.”

I waited, drawing out the moment for as long as possible, savouring the taste of his dread in every breath I drew.

"Take your fucking clothes off.” I demanded, spitting out the words with as much venom as I could muster, my lips curling back into a snarl. He jumped, but, like a good boy, he did as he was told.

As I watched him strip, I picked up the coil of rope I’d hidden beneath the bed and looped it around my fingers, running the smooth nylon scales of the weave over my skin, listening to the delicious, soft whistling as it passed across itself and my cock twitched in a Pavlovian response.

Now all naked, vulnerable and lovely, he looked down at the rope, and then back at me, his eyes wider than I'd ever seen them before, as if he hadn’t really believed what I had whispered in his ear mere moments ago, and finally, seeing it in the flesh had made him understand the implications of my little speech, making it real.

I paused for a second. His eyes had returned to the rope and not left it. He shivered, and I watched gooseflesh prickle his skin. He was absolutely terrified now, and that really turned me on. He looked back up at me, his eyes like saucers and I realised that this might be the very first time he’d gotten involved in something like this, that first tentative step from slap and tickle into the hardcore sadomasochistic. _No pressure,_   _Simon!_ I thought.

He looked up and our gazes locked. I watched him breath out, slow and steady, letting the tension and distress flow out of him, coming to terms with what he was about to do. He was still afraid, but now his eyes danced in that way they’d done last night, when I’d drank in his list of wants and needs and we both knew that we wanted the opposite sides of the same coin. I didn’t even need to glance down at the ever stiffening cock between his legs to know that he wanted to grab what I was offering with both hands.

“Sir?” he asked.

“On the bed.” I ordered and seconds later he was face down, arse bolstered with my taped up pillows propping him up, and I had to bite back the urge just to jump on him and have my way, but instead I took a deep breath, and focused. I didn’t know when the chance to do this sort of thing would present itself again, nor did I know when I would find something so gorgeous as this boy to do it with and I intended to savour every second I got.

So I took it slow, working my way around him, binding each ankle and wrist to a separate corner of my bed frame, securing him in a prone spreadeagle and entirely at my mercy. All the while I marveled at how utterly, fuckably _gorgeous_ he was. The low light cast shadows over the broad surges and swells of his body, and as he tensed I watched the muscles ripple beneath the skin. I undid my trousers and slid my hand across my cock as I stared, unable to help myself. He was so beautiful and he was mine, to do with as I pleased.

With one last tug between my legs, I stepped out of my clothes and kicked them away. Beside the bed I’d left a strip of old t-shirt, and I used this to wrap over his eyes, temporarily blinding him, generously putting aside all the pleasure I got from watching them light up with thrilling trepidation to focus his experience on what he felt through his skin. Finally, I rammed a pair of balled-up socks between his lips and then started up some music, just loud enough to drown out any squeals that escaped his gag and cover the noise I made.

I watched him, the tension in his body building with every second as the candle flickered to life and I waited, slowly watching the hot paraffin swell with the heat of its flame until it quivered precariously and then, I let it fall.

When it hit his skin he jerked, and writhed, a low and strained moan escaping the makeshift gag. He couldn’t escape the incandescent agony of the hot wax against his skin, writhing against his bindings, grinding his cock into the pillows. I felt blood surge between my legs, my own cock stiffening in response.

I knew it hurt, I’d experimented on myself a few hours earlier, being responsible like that, and I knew now that the pain would just be starting to ebb away, the sensation changing and evolving into a tormenting hyperalgesic itch that I wanted to drive him crazy.

I let a few more drops fall, marvelling at the splash it made on his beautiful skin, delighting in the twisting, the clenching of muscles beneath as he fought and revelled in the pain. He was having the time of his life, I knew that from the way his nascent erection had blossomed into a full blown arousal, heard it in the ragged gasps as he bit down to keep from screaming, saw it in the slow, rhythmic grinding of his cock against the pillows. I’d never seen anything so _fucking_ beautiful.

So I went on, slowly and carefully searing the skin of his arse, painting patterns across his skin, spiralling drops over and between his thighs and delighting at the screams he made when I dropped fat splashes over his balls. I couldn’t help myself, sliding my free hand between my legs, trying to keep it slow and steady, but every noise he made, every twitch and struggle just drove me closer and closer. Finally, when the candle was close to burned through, I reached over to the little cluster of them I’d left burning together in a saucer, now a liquid pool of melted paraffin. I smiled to myself, knowing that this was really going to hurt. I used my free hand to spread his arse apart, and let it course over him.

He screamed this time, a proper howl of agony as it streamed between his legs, flooding over his skin. His whole body bucked and shuddered, thrashing against his bonds as he roared through gritted teeth against the gag. I couldn’t help myself. I wrapped my hand around my cock and thrusted and tugged until I came, clenching my fist around myself and squeezing hard, refusing to let anything escape as I bent double, gripping the bedframe to keep myself from collapsing as I spasmed in ectasy. This was not going to be the way the evening ended, I told myself. I was going to fuck that boy.

“Oh. I’m not finished with you yet.” I finally managed as the last fleeting twitches of my aborted climax dissipated. I gritted my teeth, and climbed onto the bed, kneeling behind him, and reaching over to grab his arse.

He jerked, obviously expecting the next sensation was going to be my cock driven hard into him, but I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. I clawed my fingertips into his skin, scraping away the beautiful rivulets of hardening wax, and spread his cheeks apart to bury my face between them.

I knew he was close, knew it from the hard tension in his muscles, the tightness in his balls, but I wasn’t finished with him yet. I edged him, pressing my lips against his skin and drawing my teeth across his hole, feeling him writhe under my grip as I did so. He moaned.

“Oh no.” I said “You’re not going to come until I’m fucking you.”

I made him wait. I tongue-fucked him to the edge of climax and retreated. I gnawed at him. I trailed my lips down over his balls and ran my tongue across his cock whilst he groaned and twisted. I teased him, pressing my dick against his hole as I worked his cock in my hand. I made him beg in gasping sobs for me to fuck him until I couldn’t hold off any longer.

“Fuck me.” he begged, as I slowly pressed into him. “Please, _please_ fuck me.” He gasped.

I leaned over and sliced through the ropes around his wrists. I was still in control, but now he could push back into me, do a little work for me as I began, slowly, to fuck him, building up my rhythm, feeling the press of our balls together as I ground into him.

My heart pounded, each beat pulsating through me, surging between my legs. I grabbed his hips and just let go, let my body loose and started to thrust, harder and harder until I was hammering into him, driving myself closure and closure until I felt the change, the climax surging in my balls, the pleasure swelling and then ecstasy flooded through me in wave after wave as I came.

I don’t think he even noticed me slipping out of him, falling back onto my heels and seeing stars. I leant heavily on the wall, my hands shaking as picked up the knife and trembling, cut the bonds that held his ankles, pushed him off the pillows and jerked the blindfold away from his eyes. Utterly spent, I flopped down beside him, pulling his sweat slicked body into me, feeling the hammering of his heart through his chest and as I held him, pressed him close to me.

I was in love with this boy.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 


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